


We Awake Illuminated

by angledust



Category: Dark Matter - Michelle Paver
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Draug, Fix-It, M/M, Polar Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angledust/pseuds/angledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gus comes back to Gruhuken early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Awake Illuminated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_la_grecque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_la_grecque/gifts).



**12 th November 1937**

 

Bjørvik and I had just sat down to dinner this evening when the dogs began to howl. In the gaps between howls came another sound, a distant rhythmic slapping against water. Strangely, my first reaction wasn’t fear, but anger. This wasn’t supposed to happen now, when it was light and I had company.

Bjørvik’s face was impassive. “Sounds like a boat, Ja?”

Of course he was right. The moon is thin now, but the sky clear. A light shone in the bay, far out to sea. A smaller light travelled away from the ship. I stood at the window and watched it grow closer. For a while I couldn’t move; couldn’t take my eyes from that sight. I saw the moonlight glint off a blond head. Who else could it be?

Today was the first day they could have arrived, but I had given up expecting them this early. They would have had to set out not long after I last telegrammed Gus, and wouldn't he have mentioned if he was about to leave? I didn’t care. I charged down to the shore and arrived a few minutes before they did.

I don’t remember my first words to Gus, probably something ridiculously mundane like, “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” I almost embraced him too, before remembering the op. He looked well, he did wince a little when he climbed out of the boat, but otherwise gave no indication of being two weeks out of surgery.

He took my hand in greeting, a little too long to be a shake. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, more than fine, everything’s fine here. You needn’t have rushed back. Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

He smiled at me, a little curiously. I think it must have been my expression. I was so, so happy to see him. Maybe he had expected something closer to the worn, unshaven drunkard I was just days ago.

Captain Eriksson disembarked. No Algie. The crew seemed reluctant to set foot on the beach. I didn’t blame them. Eriksson looked at me searchingly, but I don’t think he found what he was looking for. At that moment my mind was as far from ghosts as could be.

I invited them up to the cabin but they politely refused. Gus and I saw the boat off and walked up to the cabin. It looked quite homely with the light burning in the window. I told Gus about Bjørvik. Lucky I did, what if he had walked inside to see a strange figure, half out of sight in the next room?

“Where's the bear pole got to?” Gus asked as we reached the door.

I mumbled something about not wanting to attract bears when I was here alone. He didn’t question it, but I felt a twinge of guilt, or maybe foreboding. I could still hear the oars splash behind us; it wasn’t too late to call the boat back. Was it fair to expect Gus to stay not knowing what I had seen? Should I try to convince him to go? We could just leave, right now.

But then we were inside, in the light and warmth, Gus introducing himself to Bjørvik. And by the  time we were sitting around the table, Gus telling how the nurses took him to the wrong room for surgery twice and doling out the gifts he had brought, it was hard to remember what I had been so worried about.

When Bjørvik took a trip to the outhouse Gus told me about Archie. “He just couldn’t bring himself to come back. He wanted me to tell you how sorry he is.”

I told him I understood, and I do. In Archie’s position - on the mainland, surrounded by people and light - could I have come back to this place for him?

Anyway, we’ve already lost so many who started out with us; it’s hardly surprising to lose another. I’m just glad it wasn’t Gus. It’s our expedition now. As Gus said, I’ve shown I can man this place by myself - together we should do just fine.

I’m writing this in my bunk. Gus and I have switched, so he doesn’t have to climb. I’m in the bunk above him and occasionally I’ll hear him move, but mostly he sleeps soundly, he’s still taking morphine before bed. Across the room, Bjørvik’s snores are far louder. The cabin is crowded, but in a good way. So alive that there’s no time to think about anything outside.

 

 

**17th November**

 

Bjørvik left this morning. I’ll miss him. I remember the day he arrived, the way the atmosphere seemed to shift. After all the trouble we’ve had, losing Hugo, Gus’ illness, and the other thing, that felt like the moment things finally started to get better. I know Gus will miss him too. I thought I was doing well getting beyond his stoic reticence, but it was Gus who really got him talking. He’s taught us a lot, about trapping, and about life out here - not just for the winter, but permanently. I don’t envy him leaving, though a few days ago I know I would have. It sounds like a crushingly lonely life.

Now it’s just Gus and me. Since Bjørvik left we’ve talked non-stop: about the storm, about the appendicitis, about how Gus was worried he would never see his family again, what it’s like being out here alone, about the dogs.

I’ve hardly had time to write these last few days. To be honest I’ve hardly wanted to open this journal. When things were difficult it was a source of comfort. Now it belongs to those dark days.

But I think I should keep writing. Otherwise it's as though the darkness has beaten me. This way I hope I can replace it with something better.

I’ve been doing the readings myself the last few days. Gus came out with me for the evening check the day he arrived, but on the way back he was obviously struggling. He came back too early really. It’s selfish of me to be so glad he did. He’s not happy about taking it easy, even for a few days. But he wants to go back to the mainland even less, and he knows we don’t have the resources to treat him if anything goes wrong.  

I took the dogs with me to do the noon reading. They bounded ahead while I read the charts. After, I stopped for a moment and looked back over the sweep of the bay. For the first time in a long time, I saw, really saw, how beautiful this place it. It was like my first sighting of Gruhuken all over again. A million stars scattered the sky. The snow glowed blue, a long sleek sheet covering the bay. For a minute I remembered landing here, the excitement, and realised I was one of the few, very few, to have seen the bay like this. The world stood still around me, empty apart from the dogs, Gus, me, and this wild, beautiful landscape. I’m not sure that I actually want to be here, but I remember again why I did.

Then Isaak came running up to head-butt my leg and we headed back to the cabin.

Coming back to the light on is still so wonderful.

Nothing else to report.

 

 

**18 th November**

 

The dogs are gone.

Gus went to let them out just before seven. I was in the cabin, and I remember thinking it was odd that they didn’t bark.

He rushed back in. The door was open and the dogs weren’t there.

I’ve called them, I’ve tried to track them, and I’ve left food to try to lure them back. They’re gone.

It’s as if it’s reminding us that it’s here.

So of course we’ve had to talk about it, the ghost or draug. Gus doesn’t want to, he thinks that talking about it invokes it, and that its power comes from fear. But he also said something that I had missed. “It can open doors.” He’s right, and I can’t stop thinking about that.

In a way it felt like a relief to talk about it finally. We may have avoided mentioning it, but it’s always been between us, like an uninvited guest, watching and waiting.

In another way, talking about it felt very wrong. I understand what Gus means about not wanting to let it in. But what else can we do? The dogs are gone. This isn’t some memory or illusion. Something let the dogs out, and terrified them so much that food, warmth and instinct won’t bring them back. I can’t just ignore it and let it have them, not Isaak.

I told Gus I had read his journal. I think he understood, he said alone out here he would probably have done the same. I offered to let him read this, but he refused. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Right now, he isn’t talking much at all. Perhaps he’s realised what he’s let himself in for coming back here.

I keep going to the window, looking for Isaak, or whatever else is out there.

 

 

**20 th November**

 

First the good news.

Isaak came back. I found him when I came back from the morning reading, huddled by the door. He ran straight inside, and it took him half an hour to stop shaking. He won’t leave us alone now, which is probably for the best. We’ve agreed that he stays inside.

The bad news. I’m an idiot. Of course Gus wasn’t quiet yesterday because of the draug. He showed me the incision on his stomach this morning. It’s red raw and his skin burns to the touch. He’s coming down with a fever too.

I wired Longyearbyen right away. Gus wanted to wait. But there’s no time to wait when the ship is two days away. They’re sending a doctor out, and he might be able to treat Gus here, but I don’t think so. I think it’s over. I’ll take Isaak and we’ll get out of here, me, him and Gus. We’ll live the rest of our lives in the sun.

 

 

**21 st November**

 

I didn’t realise until I picked up this journal to write, but tonight was our first joint encounter with the thing.

I’ve been packing today. Maybe that’s it. I thought it wanted us gone, but maybe that’s not what it wants at all.

Gus’ temperature has been up and down. Sometimes he’s freezing, and looks like he’s dying of flu, sometimes he’s burning up and full of energy. When he’s well we’ve talked about home, the good things that await us. Ignoring the fact we’re leaving, giving up. I know Gus’ is sore about that. It’s not his fault, but that doesn’t make it any better for him. Maybe if I was the ill one I would feel guilty too. As it is, leaving here seems like an impossible dream.

A few hours ago we were in the bunkroom. Gus was dozing, and I was about to join him.

Isaak lay across the room on the spare bunk. He jumped down, walked to the middle of the room, stared at the window and let out a low growl, hackles up.

Something moved outside. A heavy, wet, irregular tread on the boardwalk. Gus sat up. I saw a dark shape pass the window. It headed for the porch. I think we both expected it to stop, but it kept walking. That’s when Gus picked up the torch and raced out of the room. He flung open the door. I expected him to shout after it but he just stood there, searching for it, with these wild staring eyes. I think maybe he thinks that if he can confront it, come face to face with it then he can do - something.

I dragged him back in. We’ve been in the bunkroom since then. I can’t hear anything outside. That doesn’t mean it’s not there.

 

 

**22 nd November**

 

I learned what happened to the trapper of Gruhuken last night.

After what I heard outside it took a long time to get to sleep, and I don’t think I was asleep for long.

When I slept I dreamt about the bear post, about burning, about fear and pain.

I woke, and heard Gus’ frenzied breathing echo my own.

He had not only had the same dream, he has had it before.  The waking dream he mentioned in his journal.

He told me more. Why he really came back. It wasn’t just because of my telegram. One of the other patients at the hospital, an elderly ex-minor, told him what happened at Gruhuken. He says the man spilled the story out as though confessing his sins.

Gus was reluctant to tell me. He still thinks it feeds on fear. A dream is one thing, but history, that makes it real. I told him, “If it can be described it can be understood. If it can be understood it need not be feared.” A nice way of saying it’s the not knowing that scares me most.

So he told me. He asked me not to write it down, and I won’t, but it’s worse than I thought.

  

**Later**

 

I need to write this down.

I told Gus how I feel about him last night.

We were already in the same bunk, it was a cold night, and after the dreams neither of us wanted to be alone. The bunks are small so we cuddled together. Gus was hot, but his temperature not dangerously so, not then. He told me he had come here expecting to bring me back, but when he saw me looking in such good form he couldn’t. He would have felt a coward. It would have been spitting on all my work and sacrifice in staying here.

I told him I didn’t care about the work, the expedition, any of it, half as much as I cared about him. I tried to keep it brotherly, but once I started I couldn’t seem to stop, and it came out as rather more than that. He let me ramble on, and when it was obvious I was repeating myself he told me, “I love you too.”

I hadn’t expected that. It worries me now, seeing him lie so still and obviously ill. Was it the fever talking? Was it because he thinks he’ll die? At the time I believed him, totally.

He raised his head a little, and I leaned in and kissed him. It felt natural. It felt wonderful. We had already spent so much time close together, skin to skin, that it felt like a natural progression. We lay together a while, not speaking, just touching, until he fell asleep.

Even if he does feel the same as I do what can we do about it when we go home? Absolutely nothing.

I understand what Gus meant now, about class not mattering in the arctic. All sorts of things that matter back home are meaningless here. It takes you down to your purest you, strips you bare. What could have happened if Gus had read a report on a different island, or if he hadn’t become ill? But then Hugo and Algie would be with us. Too many what-ifs. We were ill fated from the start.

 

  **Later**

 

Gus woke up at mid-day. Doubled up in pain, his fever high, barely conscious. I gave him a shot of morphine. He should be out until tomorrow morning. That’s the earliest the boat will get here. I’m half tempted to do the same to myself. If I do, and it does feed on fear like Gus thinks then it can’t hurt me. It could stand right in this room and I wouldn’t care. But what about Isaak, and what if Gus is wrong?

I’ve read that chapter on folklore again. Somehow I know it’ll come tonight. It was here yesterday, it’ll come again. Maybe it’s not fear that calls it, but weakness. Right now, we are weaker than ever. We can’t fight back. The book says to destroy a draug you must burn its body and throw it into the sea, but that’s already been done to the trapper. Maybe I could find some other way of destroying the body if it wasn’t under miles of freezing water, somewhere unknown in this bay. If Gus was well, at least we could walk for Bjørvik’s hut. There’s a tiny chance we’d survive, but we don’t even have that chance. We can’t escape. We can’t hide. All we can do is wait.

Gus was wrong about fear. You can’t always control it, any more than I can control the other killer in this bay. Gus’ breathing is laboured, his wound red and seeping, and he’s so pale. I’m scared to leave him for a moment. Losing him is far scarier than any ghost.

 

**Later**

 

It’s outside.

I’m standing by the window watching it. It’s three feet away, where the bear post used to be.

It’s watching me too. I can feel it. I can feel its anger and hate pushing against me, trying to get past.

I have the headlamp on and it’s caught in the beam. If I look down I’ll lose it. Sorry about the handwriting.

I really do love you Gus. It’s not fear or loneliness that makes me say that. I hope it wasn’t for you too.

Maybe I should feel sorry for it, but I can’t. I can feel its malevolence growing, seeping in like smoke. That’s all it is now.

Was I wrong to watch it? Am I making it worse? I can’t stop now.

Isaak just came up to me, brushed against me, and whined. He’s worried about the thing outside, but he won’t leave my side. I can hear Gus in the bunk behind, his breathing harsh and uneven. I can’t let it in.

The book said it kills people by driving them mad. The ship is coming. It could be twelve hours, could be twenty-four, could be longer. But it will come.

The ship will come. It has to.

 

 

**14 th September 1938**

 

The ship came, we lived.

Gus meant it.

We stayed at Gus’ parent's place in the country for a few months after we got back to England. They didn’t seem to mind me being there; in fact, they seemed to understand why Gus and I might want to stay together after what we’d experienced. They thanked me for saving their son’s life. I told them he saved me as much as I saved him.

Now we’re at Gus’ town house in Victoria. Isaak might be better off in the country, but he doesn’t mind so long as he gets his three walks a day. I used to be desperate to leave London. Nowadays the crowded streets, the fact that there’s only ever a wall between you and another human being, and the constant light from the lampposts all soothe me.

Gus mentioned going back to the arctic last week, not to Gruhuken of course. I went to get this journal, so he could read it, but he backed down quickly. I don’t think he wants to go exactly, but feels he has to, for closure or to prove he’s not afraid. Maybe the fact he can even suggest it is a good thing. A sign that, for him, enough time has passed to make what happened seem unreal, to let it pass into history.

I’m afraid. I haven’t opened this journal in a year. Reading my words brings it all back. I can see all the other possibilities opening up, and all the other ways it could have ended. I can’t find any meaning in what happened in Gruhuken, anything to go back and fix. I still don’t know whether anything I did stopped or slowed the thing there, or whether we were just lucky. I feel in my gut that we were very lucky.

Algie visits us sometimes. He’s good company usually, but he’s horribly guilty about not coming back, and after a few drinks will start on the what- ifs. I still think about those what-ifs every day.

So I need to write this. I need to give this journal an ending.

Tonight, Isaak sits here as I write, head on my knee. In a minute, I’ll close this journal, and go for dinner with Gus. Later we’ll sleep in the same bed. Next week I go up to Nottingham for an interview at the university college. Over time, I’ll think less and less of Gruhuken, and the thing there. One day I’ll walk into an un-lit room and barely notice the darkness. One day I’ll go to the beach and not think of a frozen sea and a world so black you can’t tell up from down. One day I’ll stumble across this journal and realise I’d forgotten, for weeks or months, that it ever existed.

 

 


End file.
